


A Muse Can Be A Mirror

by Triangulum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Creature Stiles, M/M, Muse Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Slash, Suicide (not main character)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 11:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14618037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triangulum/pseuds/Triangulum
Summary: Stiles doesn't fall asleep, because it's unwise to fall asleep around a hunter, but his energy is completely zapped and he sits in an almost daze, trying to recover and keep from passing out. It shouldn't be like this, was never like this for his mom. Maybe because she was a full muse and Stiles is only half. Part of it is definitely because the Inspiration was taken by force. It's unnatural, and strains his body. When it's true, pure Inspiration, Stiles feels rejuvenated, not exhausted.He wants to kill Gerard.





	A Muse Can Be A Mirror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cywscross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/gifts).



> So this was an idea that I got stuck on for steter secret Santa this year that I finally got around to go finishing. Five months later.

Stiles has been locked in a cell in Gerard Argent's basement for at least eight weeks. He's starting to lose track of time, only getting reoriented whenever he's brought up to Gerard's study and manages to get a glimpse of a newspaper. Sometimes he's dragged upstairs everyday, sometimes it'll be days between his little visits with Gerard.

Today, he's unlucky. Gerard is in an appalling mood, shouting about a botched hunt when Stiles is dragged into his study and chained to the chair. Gerard is volatile even when he's in a good mood, so this really doesn't bode well for Stiles. 

When he's done screaming at some hunter, he turns his attention to Stiles, a sneer on his face. Stiles glares right back. They've been doing this same song and dance for a while now and Stiles knows he's relatively safe. Gerard needs him alive and relatively undamaged, but that doesn't mean he won't hurt Stiles, and he has.

Gerard boots everyone out and closes the study doors. 

"I need to relieve some stress," Gerard says.

"Yeah, no kidding," Stiles says.

Gerard ignores him and takes his violin off the stand in the corner before walking back to stand in front of Stiles. He holds the violin in one hand and reaches out to Stiles with the other. He wraps a cold, clammy hand around Stiles', making him cringe, because gross. 

"You know what to do," Gerard says.

Stiles glares. It doesn't matter how many times he tells Gerard he doesn't know how to make his abilities work, that he can't summon it, the old son of a bitch never believes him. Gerard squeezes Stiles' had tightly, making him wince. 

"I already told you it doesn't work like that," Stiles says. "Do you need me to write it down? Draw you a picture? Because clearly the English language isn't working."

"Or maybe we just haven't found the right trigger for you yet," Gerard says, voice light. "It'd be a shame to damage a creature so rare, but what's the use in you if you can't even Inspire?"

Fear floods Stiles, but he very carefully keeps it from showing on his face. Instead, he imagines how nice it would be to break from these chains around him, to hit Gerard square in his smug ass face, to toss him down into the cell that's been Stiles' home away from home for months. 

Stiles can feel it start to build in him, the soft, light sensation of Inspiration. It flows into Gerard without Stiles' permission, making a smug look tug at Gerard's face. Gerard doesn't let go until the flow of Inspiration stops and Stiles slumps into his chair, exhausted and drained. 

Gerard leaves Stiles where he is and stands in the middle of the room, settling his violin in place under his chin. He doesn't take out sheet music, just starts playing a melody he'd never be able to create without Stiles. It's haunting, beautiful, and Stiles hates it. 

Stiles doesn't fall asleep, because it's unwise to fall asleep around a hunter, but his energy is completely zapped and he sits in an almost daze, trying to recover and keep from passing out. It shouldn't be like this, was never like this for his mom. Maybe because she was a full muse and Stiles is only half. Part of it is definitely because the Inspiration was taken by force. It's unnatural, and strains his body. When it's true, pure Inspiration, Stiles feels rejuvenated, not exhausted. 

He wants to kill Gerard. 

* * *

Breaking into Gerard Argent's compound is definitely one of the more reckless things Peter has done, but Talia wants conclusive proof, so here he is. It's been two months since the fire that almost burned their home to the ground, a fire Peter knows was set by Kate Argent. Only Talia isn't so sure and isn't willing to go to war with a prominent hunter family on Peter's 'speculation'.

It's laughably easy to get in, though that's probably due to the fact that they probably don't expect a werewolf to be stupid enough to march into a hunter's den and that most of the Argents are out on a hunt. Peter doesn't have much of a choice though, not if he wants to end this threat to his family.

He goes in through the back door, using his enhanced hearing to find where the cameras are softly whirring, and deftly avoiding them. He's wearing a black ski mask just in case (he feels like a common car thief) but he'd rather not be seen by anyone monitoring the feed. 

Peter makes his way silently though the house, ducking into empty rooms twice when someone starts down the hall he's in. He's searching for an office, probably a safe, and finds it at the back of the house. The problem is there's already a heartbeat inside. It's slow, and Peter's pretty sure it means the person is asleep. Peter weighs his options; the potential need to kill a witness means he's scrapping a clean getaway, but this is the best opportunity he's ever going to have.

Peter pushes open the study door and immediately recognizes that whatever is hunched over, chained to a chair in the middle of the room, isn't human. He's young, Peter would guess early-twenties, and he's beautiful, even with the exhausted bags under his eyes. His scent...Peter can't quite decide what it is. It's hidden under the stench that makes Peter think the hunters haven't allowed him to bathe in a while, but he smells sweet and calming, like Peter could fall into him.

Peter tears his eyes away from him and closes the door quietly behind himself, making his way on silent feet deeper into the room. Rifling through the desk drawers turns up nothing, just paperwork for the legitimate arms dealing company. Peter finds a safe in the corner of the room that stays stubbornly closed, not matter how much strength he uses trying to wrench it open.

"It's reinforced steel."

Peter whirls around to see the man in the chair looking at him with wide, brown eyes that glisten with intelligence. His heart rate is the same as it has been, giving no indication that he'd woken. 

"The safe," the man continues. "It's reinforced steel with a little druid magic woven in. Unless you know the combination, you're not getting in."

Peter frowns. All the tugging in the world hadn't even made a dent in the door of the safe. 

"I know the combination," the man says. "I've seen him enter it a dozen times." 

"What is it?" Peter asks.

"Get me out of these chains first," the man says. "Get me out of here and I'll help you with whatever you want."

"I can't," Peter says, though it stings to say. "If I take you, they'll know someone was here."

"If you take something from the safe, they're going to know anyway," the man says. "Please, you can't leave me here. You have to know what he is."

No one has every accused Peter of being a bleeding heart, but he just can't do it. He can't leave him here, not with Gerard. Peter groans, running a hand over his face, and makes his way over, leaning over the man. He inspects the chains and cuffs keeping him in the chair. They're old, etched with runes that Peter doesn't recognize. He narrows his eyes and looks up.

"What are you?" Peter asks.

"Does it matter?" he asks.

"It does if you're going to kill me," Peter says.

The man glares. "I'm a muse, okay? I have nothing offensive going on, and nothing that could stop a grown werewolf," he says. 

A _muse_. Peter's heard of them, of actual muses, not just common mythology, and has so many questions, but now isn't the time. He's already lingered longer than he'd intended. The actual cuffs on the man's wrists are thick enough that they'll be difficult to pry off quietly, but the chain links attached to them twist off easily. 

The man slumps forward as soon as the chains are off, collapsing against Peter's chest. His body is shaking and Peter wonders what exactly the runes on the cuffs do, but he doesn't have time to ponder it right now.

"Hey, stay awake," Peter says, lightly slapping the side of his face. 

The man bats at his hand. "I'm awake, Christ," he says. "The safe is 26, 87, 95, 65, 4." 

Peter steadies him, making sure he isn't going to fall forward onto the floor, and goes back to the safe. Peter doesn't have time to do an in-depth reading, just skims the pages to see that yes, there is information on the Hale fire (he sees a list of people they paid off, where they bought supplies, who they threatened). 

And there's more.

Research on dozens of packs. Movements, addresses, schools. Articles about accidental fires and car crashes. Obituaries. Peter doesn't know why Gerard would keep it all. Trophies? A way to keep his ducks in a row? Blackmail on hunters beneath him? Peter isn't sure, but he's taking it all. 

Peter turns to where the muse is finally standing, cracking his neck and rotating his shoulders. Time to go. 

* * *

Stiles doesn't learn Peter's name until after they're out of the Argent compound. Stiles stops them once when they're about to hit a squeaky step, Peter pushes Stiles into an empty room when someone starts down the hallway, but after that it's relatively easy to get out. Gerard is a great hunter, but hubris is his weakness, and he hadn't expected anyone to be foolish enough to try to break in, and out, of the great Argent stronghold. Stiles hopes it gives the old fuck a coronary.

As soon as they slip into Peter's rented car and speed away, the adrenaline surge that had hit Stiles when he'd woken to a strange wolf in the study starts to wane. He thinks Peter can tell, because he glances over, taking his eyes briefly off the road to assess Stiles.

"We'll be driving for a few hours. I want to put as much room as possible between me and Argent," Peter says. "Sleep."

Stiles doesn't want to, but it's hard to ignore how exhausted his body is. It's rough having Inspiration ripped from you over and over again, and the energy taken hadn't been replaced (feeding him soggy cereal twice a day doesn't count). 

"You don't have to be worried," Peter says. "I promise not to leave you at a truck stop."

Stiles snorts, eyes falling closed.

"Better not. I'd find you if you tried," Stiles says.

Stiles sleeps deeper than he has in months, even though the car is moving. He's not at Gerard's and his subconscious seems to know it. Even though he's with a strange wolf, he's safer than he was. He wakes up hours later when the sun starts coming over the horizon. He blinks his eyes open slowly, taking a second to remember why he's seeing the sun at all, why he's not waking up tied to a chair in Gerard's study or locked in a cell in a basement. 

Peter glances over at him briefly and says, "We're stopping at a hotel in the next city. I need to sleep, we both need to eat, and you, my friend, desperately need a shower."

"You're the rudest cavalry that's ever come to my rescue," Stiles says, stretching and sitting up straighter in his seat. Normally he's too uncomfortable to sleep in a car, but compared to the wooden plank he's been sleeping on in the basement, the Civic's seat is a memory foam mattress.

"Are you always this ungrateful to your rescuers?" Peter asks.

"I'm usually the one doing the rescuing, actually," Stiles says. Peter gives him a skeptical look that makes Stiles glare. "Okay, I admit I'm not at my best right now, but seriously. I'm the mightiest of all rescuers."

"Of course, how foolish of me to doubt that," Peter says dryly. Stiles rolls his eyes and goes back to watching the trees whip by. And watching Peter.

Peter glows brightly. That might just be the dehydration, slight starvation, and probable shock talking, but Stiles doesn't think so, especially after Peter snaps the cuffs off his wrists and his magic flows more freely. Certain people shine brighter than others. They're the ones with extraordinary talent or potential. Stiles has only ever seen two people shine brighter than Peter. One was Lydia, a genius he'd gone to school with (he blames her nearly iridescent glow for his former, misguided crush). 

The other was an old woman named Margaret at the senior center where Stiles used to play bridge with the elderly. He'd found out she'd been a playwright, poet, singer, and dancer when she was younger, and had been quite good. Stiles' Inspiration had flown freely around her, and they'd spent hours together while she wrote. She'd written about the racism that kept her from large productions, that kept her poems and plays from being acknowledged until fifty years later. She wrote about how she had no family left. It's some of the most beautiful work Stiles has ever read.

Stiles had cried when she'd died in her sleep at the old age of 94. He'd snuck into her home and taken the book of poems before her landlord could sell her belongings. 

Peter doesn't glow as brightly as Lydia or Margaret, but it's a close thing. Stiles manages to keep from asking any questions until they're in the hotel room and Peter is digging through his bag for clothes for Stiles to wear, Stiles sitting on one of the beds, watching him.

"Are you a musician?" Stiles asks.

Peter looks up, jeans in his hands. He sets the down and slowly sits on the bed opposite of Stiles, looking at him intently.

"You can tell?" Peter asks.

"Most of the time," Stiles says with a shrug. "It's not really precise, though."

"Tell me," Peter says. He looks hungry for the knowledge Stiles can provide, and that's not really surprising. "Tell me about being a muse."

"Technically I'm only half. My mother's real name was Euterpe," Stiles says. 

"The muse of music?" Peter asks. 

Stiles smiles, pleasantly surprised. "Yeah, that's her. She gave up immortality to marry my dad," he says. "She died before she could really teach me how to control it. I can, fuck it sounds stupid when I say it out loud, I can kind of sense talent? Like I can tell when someone has natural ability, or affinity for the arts. Specifically music, but I can get a sense of other areas."

Peter looks like he has a million more questions, but Stiles' stomach gives an embarrassingly loud growl, making him look sheepish.

"Go ahead and clean up, I'll order something from room service," Peter says.

Stiles isn't going to argue with that. He doesn't remember the last time he had a proper shower and he knows that if he reeks to his own nose, it must be awful for Peter's sense of smell. The hot water feels heavenly on his back, and he refuses to look down, not wanting to see the grime flowing off him. He uses almost all of the little bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, but he's pretty sure Peter would prefer that over having to smell him.

It's tempting to stand under the hot water for longer, but he really is hungry. After quickly drying off and tugging on the clothes Peter lent him (they're too big, Peter is much broader than he is, but he's grateful to not be in the same filthy outfit he'd been in), he emerges from the bathroom to see a rolling cart from room service.

"Oh my god, I could marry you," Stiles says. 

"How about breakfast first," Peter says. Stiles groans when Peter hands him a plate covered in French toast and bacon. "Don't make yourself sick."

"No promises," Stiles says, digging in.

They're mostly quiet while they eat, sitting side by side on one of the beds. Despite what he said, Stiles does slow down. He doesn't want to vomit up his first good meal in months. He catches Peter looking at him once or twice, looking either contemplative or sad. Or both. Stiles usually abhors pity, but if it keeps him in Peter's good graces and away from hunters, he's fine using it.

"You said you can sense talent," Peter says once Stiles slows down. Stiles looks up from his food and nods. "Can you nurture it?"

"Kind of," Stiles says. "I can Inspire. That's part of why Gerard was keeping me. He was forcing Inspiration."

"For what?" Peter asks.

"Violin, of all fucking things," Stiles says. "The old codger is very mediocre violinist and wanted to be better. He said it was stress relief."

"I doubt that forcing Inspiration is safe to you," Peter says.

"It's not," Stiles says. "I don't even know how it works most of the time. Some people are more naturally gifted than others, or have the potential there. Some people I'm just drawn to and it flows more freely with them."

"Fascinating," Peter says, looking thoughtful. "Well, I can see why Gerard wanted to keep you. Muses aren't exactly common."

"Fat lot of good it did him. I could Inspire in the moment, but his actual talent will never grow," Stiles says. He tilts his head to the side, watching the way the aura around Peter shimmers brightly. It's like his inner Inspiration is running the show, making him reach out slowly, tracing his fingers down the veins in Peter's hand, a trail of Inspiration tingling after him. Peter gasps, eyes wide. 

"My Inspiration likes you very much," Stiles says softly, voice awed. He hasn't ever been this responsive to someone, hasn't felt the joy and Inspiration flow through him quite like this. It's beautiful, so much more so than when he was forced to use it on a sick old man. "It would be wonderful if I could hear you play sometime."

When Stiles glances up at Peter's face, he sees awe and intrigue. Stiles immediately flushes and pulls his hand back. He wishes he had a better hold of the damn muse powers so he doesn't go stroking random men's arms.

"Anyways," Stiles says. "Where are we going?"

Peter stares at him a moment longer before saying, "Beacon Hills."

Stiles' eyes widen as things start clicking into place. "You're Peter _Hale_ ," he says. Peter's brows raise. "Uh, that's where I grew up. My dad's the sheriff is Beacon Hills. Can I call him? I should probably tell him his son isn't dead."

"Sure," Peter says. "You're not a prisoner, you're welcome to do what you want."

Stiles grins. It's nice to not be a prisoner. 

* * *

Peter's surprised that Stiles is from his hometown, but Beacon Hills has always had a large supernatural population, so it's not too impossible. The thought briefly enters his mind that Stiles could be a plant by Gerard to get information about the Hales, but he dismisses that idea quickly. Gerard would never work with a supernatural being, and even if he did, Peter...It sounds stupid, even to him, but Peter knows Stiles wouldn't do that. It's ridiculous, he's known him for less than a day, but Peter's always been good at reading people, and he knows Stiles isn't a danger to him.

Peter calls Talia from his cell phone on the room's balcony while Stiles uses the phone in the room to call his dad. She isn't thrilled that he took off without warning, but he reminds her that she demanded proof, and he has it. He doesn't tell her about Stiles, keeping that card close to his chest for now. 

He waits politely until Stiles is off the phone with his dad before coming back inside. Stiles' eyes are red and he brushes the tears away quickly, like he doesn't want Peter to see. Peter isn't judging him, he'd be crying if he were in his shoes.

"We'll sleep for a few hours then get on the road again," Peter says. "We're probably eight hours out of Beacon Hills and I don't want to drive exhausted."

Stiles nods, which is good because Peter really doesn't know how he'd force him to get the rest he so obviously needs. Peter double checks the locks on the door and windows while Stiles climbs into his bed, still wearing Peter's clothes. Peter will hear anything trying to come in the room, but he sets the chair in front of the door handle just in case. By the time he's stripping to his boxers and crawling under the covers of the other bed, Stiles is already out like a light.

He doesn't stay that way for long, though. Peter's only been dozing for about fifteen minutes when Stiles' heartbeat skyrockets. Peter sits up quickly, eyes searching the room in case something somehow got in without him hearing, but no, Stiles is still fast asleep. Peter doesn't blame him for the nightmares that probably plague him; being Gerard's captive for months wouldn't be a picnic. 

Peter waits to see if Stiles will settle down on his own, but after ten minutes the racing heart and acrid stench of fear are too much for Peter. He slides out of bed, grumbling a bit at the cold air, and sits on the edge of Stiles' bed. He's curled up in a ball under the blankets, quivering and reeking of fear. Peter places a hand on his shoulder and gently shakes him, trying to wake him up gently.

"Stiles," Peter murmurs. No response. He rolls Stiles over and says more loudly, "Stiles!"

Stiles jerks in his hold, eyes opening wide. His hand flies up to cover his face, like warding off a blow, and it makes Peter wince in sympathy.

"It's just me," Peter says softly, the same tone he uses when his nieces and nephews have nightmares. "Deep breaths, there you go."

"Peter?" Stiles asks, voice small. He grips Peter's arms tightly, tight enough that if he were human, there would be bruises. "Fuck. This is real, right? Please tell me this is real."

"This is real," Peter says. "You're not with Argent."

"Fuck," Stiles groans, sagging back against the mattress. Peter wraps his arms around him without even thinking. "I'm going to need all the therapy, aren't I?"

"Probably," Peter says, stroking his hand through Stiles' hair. It calms Cora down when she has bad dreams, and it seems to work for Stiles, too. "Though honestly we could all benefit from a little therapy."

Stiles snorts. "You too?" he asked.

"Oh, especially me," Peter says. Stiles lets out a small laugh, which Peter considers victory on its own. "You should get some sleep."

Stiles nods, but doesn't let go of his grip on Peter. Peter can understand wanting someone near him, especially after months of living in a dank cell, so Peter obliges, lying next to him. And there are certainly worse way Peter has fallen asleep. The line of tension in Stiles' back doesn't dissipate until Peter settles in with his arm around Stiles' waist, making it clear that he isn't going anywhere. Only then does Stiles relax, letting himself sink into the mattress.

"I'll hear if anyone comes," Peter promises, breath on the back of Stiles' neck. "You can sleep."

Peter rumbles in his chest, a rolling purr that always soothes the kids in his pack. He doesn't know if it'll work for Stiles at first, but it seems to because his exhaustion pulls him back to sleep quickly, cradled in Peter's arms. It takes Peter a bit longer, but eventually he drifts off, thinking he has one more reason now to want to put Gerard in the ground.

They sleep until the sun rises. Peter's used to waking up when the sun comes up, and he thinks Stiles' body is so shocked that there's natural sun instead of the dark of his cell that he wakes up as well. He's well-rested when he untangles himself from Peter, though he looks like it pains him to do it. Peter's not thrilled about it either; it's been a long time since he's had a bed mate quite as pretty as Stiles, even if they did nothing but sleep.

They're on the road an hour later, wanting to put as much time and distance between them and the Argent stronghold as possible. It's sunny and bright, and Stiles is grinning like he hasn't seen the sun in months. His feet are up on the dash, even though Peter's pushed them down three times. He should probably give up, but that means the little shit would win.

"Favorite song?" Stiles asks.

"What?" Peter asks.

"What's your favorite song?" Stiles asks.

"Lady Marmalade," Peter says, straight-faced. Stiles doesn't buy it for a second.

"Liar," Stiles says, laughing. "Come on, what's the big bad wolf's favorite song?"

"If I tell you, will you take your feet off that dash?" Peter asks.

"No," Stiles says.

"You know, there was a man a few years ago who got into a car crash with his feet up. His shins went straight up through his thighs and stabbed him in the torso," Peter says conversationally. "I could probably heal from that, but could you?"

"You won't crash with your wolfy instincts," Stiles says, but he takes his feet down anyway, nose wrinkled. "Fine, feet down. Song?"

"Moondance by Van Morrison," Peter says before he can tell himself not to.

"Solid choice," Stiles says. "Favorite Harry Potter book?"

"What makes you think I've read any of them?" Peter asks.

"Please, we both know you have," Stiles says.

"Fine. Goblet of Fire."

"Heathen! Prisoner of Azkaban is far superior!" Stiles says.

"If you say so," Peter says. He actually does like that book, but riling Stiles up is just too fun.

They continue like that for the next hour, Stiles demanding little snippets of information about Peter, and Peter actually giving them to him. With plenty of teasing of course, because Peter can't help but like that pretty shade of red Stiles' fair skin gets when he's flushed.

"All right, so when are we stopping for food? Because I'd kill someone for a bacon and gouda sandwich from Starbucks," Stiles says.

"Really. Of all the options after escaping captivity, Starbucks is what you want?" Peter says, but he still pulls off at the exit coming up.

"What can I say? I have a refined palette," Stiles says. 

The freeway off ramp is empty and curves around steeply, trees on the side. A sense unease trickles through Peter. He barely has time to register the headlights being too close before the gunshots start and the SUV behind them slams into them, sending Peter's car careening off the road and into the trees. 

* * *

Stiles' vision is blurred, blood rushing in his ears. He blinks slowly a few times before he realizes the car is slammed against a tree, tilting strongly to the right. He feels like he's moving through molasses, his movements slow and weak. He wonders if he's going into shock and thinks it's likely when he wipes at his face and his hand comes away red.

Peter's pinned at the waist, the wolfsbane bullets lodged in his chest keeping him too weak to get free. He's snarling, alternating between trying to pull himself out and saying something. Stiles thinks it's his name, that Peter is telling him to leave. He wouldn't even if he could, but he really doesn't think he can. 

Disoriented as he is, Stiles still tries to free Peter's legs and checks on his gunshot wounds. That much black goo and blood can't be good, and Stiles is weak as a kitten and can't do anything to help. He's useless as always and wants to fucking scream.

"Go," Peter says, and the ringing in Stiles' ear has gone down enough that he can actually hear him. Peter's voice is pained and ragged as he tries to push Stiles away. "They're coming, go!"

"No," Stiles says. "I can't...you..."

He doesn't get a chance to finish. He's yanked backward, out of the destroyed passenger door. He's thrown onto his back on the forest ground, twigs and rocks digging into him. Stiles groans as he hits, sure that yep, his arm is broken and probably a few ribs. 

"That was very foolish of you." 

Stiles looks up into the cold eyes on Gerard Argent. He bares his teeth in warning but Gerard just tuts.

"You hang around with animals like these for too long and their habits wear off on you," Gerard says. 

The hunter that yanked Stiles from the car walks around to the driver's side, disappearing from view. Stiles jerks at the sound of Peter's pained howl, but Gerard kicks him in the ribs when he tries to get up. Stiles falls back with a pained whine, clutching at his chest. Rage wells inside him; rage for Peter, rage for himself, rage at once again being at this psychotic old man's mercy. 

Inspiration flows, more easily and natural than it has in months, and Stiles doesn't hesitate. Gerard is watching whatever his hunter is doing to Peter and doesn't notice Stiles' hand creeping forward until it's wrapped around his ankle tight. He tries to jerk away at the feeling of Stiles' fingers, but it's too late.

"Stop," Stiles says, and Gerard's other foot freezes where it was about to kick Stiles in the nose. Stiles pushes all the Inspiration he has into Gerard, but he has a goal in mind this time, and it isn't to help him play the violin. "You're going to shoot your hunter buddies in the head."

The two hunters with Gerard look up in alarm, but they don't have time to even point their guns before Gerard has lifted his. He drops them each with one shot, right between the eyes. Stiles can feel him fighting the Inspiration, but he doesn't care. He isn't letting go.

"Inspiration is a tricky thing," Stiles says, spitting out the blood in his mouth. "And it doesn't like to be ignored."

Stiles closes his eyes and shoves all his will into Inspiring Gerard, to making the idea and need so desperate he can't ignore it. The old man's will is strong, but nothing compared to Stiles'. 

"Now, you're going to put that gun in your mouth and pull the trigger," Stiles hisses.

Gerard doesn't even hesitate. He blows his own head off seconds after Stiles tells him to, blood and brain matter spattering Stiles. He's sure that'll be traumatizing as hell later, but right now he has more important things to do. He blew almost all his energy on Gerard, but he's still able to grab for the gun that had fallen from the old man's hand and stagger around the car to the driver's side door.

Peter's gasping for air, still struggling to get himself out of the car. There's a whole lot of black goo and blood, and fuck that doesn't look good. Stiles' blood-slick fingers fumble with the gun, then to get the matches he'd taken from the hotel out of his pocket, but he manages to get the bullets cracked open. The mountain ash falls into his hands and he sets it alight, wincing at how it burns his palms. 

Stiles' vision is going fuzzy again, the hit to his head probably not making things better, and it takes all the strength he has left to shove the burned mountain ash into the holes in Peter's chest, making him roar in pain. Stiles has just enough time to hope that it was the right strain, that the hunters didn't have different bullets in each of their guns, before he collapses backward onto the forest floor. He blinks slowly as he fades away from consciousness, desperately hoping that Peter gets free and can get them out of here. The last thing he hears is the loud roar of a wolf, then nothing. 

Stiles wakes up slowly, and honestly he's surprised it happens at all. He was sure he was down for the count and his time was finally up. But no, he can hear the beeping of a heart monitor and smell the antiseptic scent that comes with most hospitals. He feels a hand slip around his, fingers tight, and that makes him finally open his eyes to see Peter in the chair next to him, looking a bit disheveled but no worse for the wear.

"There you are," Peter says softly. 

It takes Stiles a few throat clearings before he can speak without sounding like he swallowed a cactus, but he manages to say, "You got us out."

"No, _you_ got us out," Peter says. "And I must say, it was magnificent to watch."

"I killed a man," Stiles says. "That shouldn't be...you should be running far away from me."

"Please," Peter says flatly, letting his eyes shine blue. What he and Scott had always called 'murder blue'. "If you're looking for moral condemnation, you're talking to the wrong person. And if it's jail you're worried about, who's going to tell? I'm certainly not. Even if I did, who is going to believe that you supernaturally influenced a man to kill himself?"

"Yeah, true," Stiles says. "It's just...I never used it that way before. I don't think my mom would be especially proud of me." 

"I can't speak for your mother, but I believe she'd probably be happy your're alive," Peter says. "Your father certainly is."

"Dad? Where is he?" Stiles asks. 

"He left a few hours ago. Warrants came through for most of the Argents and he wanted to be there personally to make sure none of them slipped away," Peter says. 

"Did you...did you tell him what I did?" Stiles asks.

"No," Peter says, stroking his thumb over the back of Stiles' hand. "That's up to you. If that's something you want to tell him, fine. If not, we'll work out a lie."

"Willing to lie to the cops for me, must be true love," Stiles teases weakly.

Peter smirks. "Maybe I just want you for your body," he says.

"Nuh uh. You liiiike me," Stiles says, grinning.

Stiles tightens his grip on Peter's hand when he makes to pull it away, but Peter just uses his other to reach up and cup Stiles' cheek, pulling out the pain of what feels like a truly spectacular bruise. He's looking at him thoughtfully, and Stiles bites his lip, convinced he's about to be kissed.

"I suppose you're all right," Peter says nonchalantly, making Stiles laugh and swat at him.

"You're a dick," Stiles says.

"True," Peter says. "I never denied that."

Stiles rolls his eyes but doesn't say anything, letting them sit in silence for a few minutes. Peter's still tracing patterns on the back of Stiles' hand, and it's a lot more calming than he thought it'd be. And he doesn't think it's just because no one has touched him kindly in months.

"I'm sorry you didn't get a chance to kill him yourself," Stiles says.

Peter shrugs. "I'm not. You suffered enough that I think you deserved to do it. Plus, I don't have to deal with Talia's bitching now," Peter says. Stiles smiles. Fair enough.

"When I'm out of here, you should play something for me," Stiles says, toying with Peter's fingers. "Pianist, am I right?"

"You are," Peter says. "Guitar on occasion, but mostly piano."

"Mm. You should sneak a guitar in here," Stiles says. "I probably can't pull some Inspiration right now, but..."

"Rest first," Peter says. "Then we'll see." 

* * *

Peter does end up bringing a guitar to the hospital, partially because Stiles makes a good point that music could only help the muse of music, but also because Peter has the feeling he isn't going to be good at denying Stiles anything.

He doesn't feel the first tendril of Inspiration until the third day (three days in the hospital seems excessive to Peter, but that's human healing, he supposes). Stiles isn't even touching him, just watching as Peter tunes his guitar. He doesn't know if Stiles even knows he's doing it, or if it's a latent ability that just seeps out, but he doesn't say anything. 

It feels like warmth spreading through him, like when he has his first sip of earl grey tea in the morning, only this is warming his very soul. His fingers move almost without his thought, picking up a soft melody he thinks he heard years ago. Stiles looks positively delighted, then surprised when he realizes the Inspiration is flowing. Peter can feel him when he actively starts pushing it toward him, the music taking over him as he plays longer than he has in years.

Peter's going to have to brush up on his piano skills, because he needs to see that smile of Stiles' again.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [ tumblr ](http://www.hotpinklizard.tumblr.com).


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